


but the stillness is a burn

by JourEtNuit



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Dom/sub, F/F, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 02:06:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15620106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JourEtNuit/pseuds/JourEtNuit
Summary: “I wanna talk to your priest about a resurrection.”Ophelia rests her chin on her linked fingers. “Are you wasting my time, Beauregard? We’ve discussed this already. My priest works for friends and family only.”“I can beveryfriendly,” Beau says, on an impulse, and she winks for good measure. There’s a silence, long enough for Beau to instantly regret everything, and then Ophelia fuckinglaughs.“Oh, little girl,” she says, between chuckles, “you are in over your head.” She leans back in her chair, and examines Beau’s figure, slow and predatory. “I wouldbreakyou.”





	but the stillness is a burn

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Infinity", by The XX.
> 
> You can blame Marisha's reaction to Ophelia calling Beau "little girl" for this...

Two days after defeating the Iron Shepherds, Beauregard makes her way back to the Mardun family's mansion, alone.

She leaves early in the morning, before any of her friends wakes up, before anyone can question or follow her. Which, it dawns on her when she finds herself surrounded by armed guards at the gate, in the middle of the woods, might not have been the smartest move. She doesn’t have much time to dwell on it, thankfully, because it only takes a few minutes for the head guard to come back with Ophelia Mardun’s response.

“Lady Ophelia will see you in her office.”

“Told ya,” Beau says, a little smug, right before the guard behind her pushes the tip of his lance between her shoulder blades. She gets the message, and starts walking.

Last time she was here, she only made it into the main hall, but this time the guard guides Beau up the luxurious staircase leading to the first floor. The house is eerily silent. The red velvet carpet is so thick that Beau’s feet don’t make a sound, and she’s suddenly acutely aware of her own breathing. Reflexively, she reaches for the staff strapped to her back, before she remembers that all her weapons were taken away while she was waiting at the gate.

The guard directs her toward an ornate door and knocks, once. “Come in,” answers a muffled voice. Beau rolls her neck, like she’s about to enter a fighting pit, and opens the door.

Ophelia is sitting at a massive desk of polished dark wood, inlaid with silver and gold. She’s writing a letter, and she doesn’t look up when Beau comes in, eyes on her parchment, quill in hand, her dark hair tied in a long, delicate braid that disappears below her shoulders. The sun is about to set, and bathes the room in a warm orange glow through the tall window behind the desk, softening the brighter light of the monumental chandelier.

Beau takes a step forward. No reaction. She clears her throat. “Um…hi…”

Ophelia, still not bothering to look up, snaps her fingers, and for half a second Beau is extremely confused. And then the guard pushes down on her shoulders until she drops to her knees, and Beau realizes the signal wasn’t meant for her.

“I’m not done,” Ophelia says, simply. Her voice is soft and dangerous, like a silk glove covering a hand of steel. Beau fights her instinct to revolt, and focuses on her goal. She promised herself she’d do anything to get what she wants out of this meeting. If that means letting Ophelia test her, or whatever she thinks she’s doing, well, Beau can deal.

(And yeah, not that she’d ever admit it, but maybe the shiver that runs down her spine is not _entirely_ unpleasant.)

So Beau waits. On her knees, in front of Ophelia Mardun, Beau shuts her mouth and waits. She’s nothing if not stubborn, after all.

Just as her knees start aching from the hard, cold marble floor, Ophelia lifts her head. Her glowing eyes find Beau’s ; she smiles. “Leave us,” she tells the guard, eyes never leaving Beau.

Beau waits until she hears the door closing before she gets back to her feet, looking Ophelia in the eye as she does so. Ophelia raises an eyebrow at the display of defiance, but doesn’t comment on it.

“Beauregard,” she says instead, linking her long fingers together. Somehow, hearing Ophelia use her name fills Beau with more nervous anticipation than when she faced Lorenzo a couple days ago. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”

“Well, we got rid of your problem,” Beau states - but she doesn’t sound nearly as confident as she was hoping for. She clears her throat again, fidgets with her sleeve, crosses her arms against her chest. Ophelia’s smile widens, and Beau can’t help stealing a glance at the sharp teeth poking between her lips.

“And you have my eternal gratitude,” Ophelia says, casually. “But if you’re looking for your payment…”

“I want a favor from you,” Beau interrupts. Something flashes in Ophelia’s yellow eyes, but she stays silent, so Beau keeps talking. “We’ve proven ourselves to be valuable allies. We’ve done the thing you asked. Discreetly, which isn’t always our forte, to be honest with you…”

“Get to the point,” Ophelia cuts in. She’s still smiling, but there’s no warmth to it.

Beau squares her shoulders. This is it. This is her moment. “I wanna talk to your priest about a resurrection.”

Ophelia rests her chin on her linked fingers. “Are you wasting my time, Beauregard? We’ve discussed this already. My priest works for friends and family only.”

“I can be _very_ friendly,” Beau says, on an impulse, and she winks for good measure. There’s a silence, long enough for Beau to instantly regret everything, and then Ophelia fucking _laughs_.

“Oh, little girl,” she says, between chuckles, “you are in over your head.” She leans back in her chair, and examines Beau’s figure, slow and predatory. “I would _break_ you.”

Something in Beau’s stomach unfurls, something treacherous and inviting, and for a second she’s not sure if she wants to fight or flee or surrender. It passes, and she straightens up, cocks her head, licks her lips.

“Yeah, sure. You’re not the first rich lady who’s had the hots for me. Break me? Please.” She smirks, and takes a step closer to the desk. “I’ll show you a good time, if you give me what I want.”

Ophelia shakes her head, amused. “You’re a fool, but you certainly have guts. I’ll admit it, I’m impressed.”

She rises from her seat, gracefully, her purple jacket well-fitted and refined, her long braid swaying behind her back. Beau swallows, suddenly aware of the sheer power Ophelia emanates.

“All right. Spend the night with me, and I’ll tell you the name and location of my priest,” Ophelia says as she walks up to Beau. “Free of charge.”

“Uh… okay?” Beau hesitates, taken aback. She was not expecting such an easy victory. Ophelia stands, towering, in front of her, and extends a hand.

“If at any time you want to stop, just say so, and we’ll stop. You have my word.”

“And you’ll still give me the information?”

Ophelia nods. “For a fair price.” Beau considers her options. She could walk out and find another way to bring Molly back. She could try and negotiate a different deal. Or she could just… give in. Ophelia Mardun is beautiful and haughty, and tantalizingly unapproachable, and Beau can’t help but feel tempted.

One night of probably very good sex, _and_ the information she came for? Not a bad deal. Molly would be proud of her. She shakes Ophelia’s hand.

“Done.”

Ophelia grins. Her fingers wrap around Beau’s wrist and she pulls Beau towards her, leisurely. “Wonderful,” she whispers, as she cups Beau’s cheek with her other hand. Her touch is soft, but there’s strength under the gentleness, steel under the silk.

Beau’s mouth opens, and she wants to say something, anything, some stupid cheeky little quip to ease her nerves, but Ophelia traces her lower lip with her thumb, and the words drown in her throat. Warmth stirs low in her stomach and settles between her legs, and suddenly there’s nothing but the light weight of Ophelia’s finger resting on her lip. She tries to shake it off, whatever this is, but Ophelia’s bright eyes are staring at her, unblinking, and under her gaze Beau feels like a butterfly pinned to the board by the wings.

Captivated, she lets Ophelia’s thumb push past her lips until the length of it is inside her mouth. Ophelia makes a small satisfied sound, halfway between a hum and a laugh, and Beau, finally, snaps out of it. Her teeth close around Ophelia’s finger, and she smiles as she bites down, not hard enough to hurt, but quick enough to startle her.

Ophelia takes both hands off Beau and gives her a nod of approval. “The kitten has claws, I see.”

Beau uses the opportunity to grab her by the waist, and pushes forward until Ophelia’s lower back hits the edge of the desk. Beau presses herself against the length of her body and kisses the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. Ophelia is lithe and athletic, she smells of iron beneath her flowery perfume, and Beau looses herself to the heady feeling of smooth skin under her hands, under her tongue.

She doesn’t notice Ophelia reaching behind to grab something on the desk, until there’s a sharp little tap on her right thigh. “I think we ought to teach you some manners, darling,” Ophelia breathes in her ear. Beau turns her head slightly to the right, just enough to spot the riding crop in Ophelia’s hand.

“Wow,” she says. “Uh, I don’t… I’ve never…” Something like honey, syrupy and sweet, pools at the back of her throat, something that tastes like desire and apprehension and makes her stutter.

Ophelia holds Beau’s chin up. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I won’t give you more than you can handle.”

Gently, she pushes Beau off of her, and places the tip of the crop against Beau’s sternum, keeping her at arm’s length. “Little girl,” she drawls, and the corner of her mouth lifts when Beau’s breath falters. “Such an impatient one, you are. So much aggression, and so little control.”

She moves the crop to Beau’s neck, very slowly. Beau can’t tear her eyes off Ophelia, can’t risk moving a muscle for fear of cutting the moment short. All her attention is on the small leather tongue running up and down her throat.

“Where’s all your swagger gone, I wonder?” Ophelia muses. “Where’s the promise of showing me a good time?”

“I haven’t even started,” Beau counters, weakly. Even to her ears, it lacks conviction. Ophelia tuts, disapproving, and the riding crop leaves Beau’s throat.

“Take off your clothes.”

“What? Wait, what about you?”

Another little tap on the back of her thigh, harder this time. Beau swallows a gasp, and glares at Ophelia. “So, what, you just want to order me around and poke me with that fucking stick all night long, is that it?”

“Oh, Beauregard, I think we both know you want this to happen as much as me.” Before Beau can deny it, Ophelia narrows her eyes. “Now, don’t make me repeat myself.” Her tone is a little harsher, deliciously severe, and Beau’s cheeks turn red.

“Oh, what the hell,” she mumbles after a moment of hesitation, and, carefully avoiding Ophelia’s eyes, she undresses.

Beau has never been particularly bashful, but standing naked in front of a fully dressed Ophelia is different. The vulnerability of her situation makes something tighten in her chest, like her ribs are compressing her lungs, and she takes a shaky breath, forcing herself to stay still, forcing herself to raise her head and meet Ophelia’s eyes.

Ophelia licks her teeth. “Pretty girl,” she says, genuinely admiring. Her zemnian accent is more pronounced, and she’s gripping the riding crop so hard her knuckles have turned a whitish grey.

The pressure in Beau’s chest loosens up. “Yeah, that’s the consensus,” she retorts, brazenly. Ophelia rolls her eyes, but there’s something almost fond in the way she looks at Beau.

“Come here,” Ophelia tells her, placing the crop back on the desk. She’s still leaning against the edge of it, and she doesn’t move when Beau reaches for her face. Beau traces the strong line of Ophelia’s jaw, the soft, thin skin of her temples, trailing up until she’s touching the smooth horns on top of her head. She presses her lips to Ophelia’s, and kisses her fully and unabashedly, hissing in surprise when she feels the sharp tip of a canine against her tongue.

“Careful,” Ophelia whispers, as her hands curl around Beau’s lower back. “I don’t want to hurt you. Yet.”

Beau huffs against her mouth, and starts undoing the buttons of her jacket. Ophelia’s right hand dances up her spine, fingers light on Beau’s back, tracing the numerous scars like she’s drawing a map. Her left hand cups Beau’s ass, possessively, before following the ridge of her hipbone.

“Oh,” Ophelia says, when her fingers dip between Beau’s legs. “You really are impatient.”

Beau is already _so_ wet, and clearly Ophelia is delighted with the discovery, spreading slickness all over Beau’s inner thighs. And then one finger finds her clit, and Beau lets out a soft needy little sound, each feather-like touch sending jolts of arousal through her stomach. She rests her forehead in the crook of Ophelia’s neck and closes her eyes.

“Stop fucking teasing me,” she grumbles after a minute or so of this.

Ophelia cups the back of her neck and holds her close as her fingers press gently at the opening of Beau’s cunt. And immediately stop moving. Beau whines, bucking her hips against Ophelia, in search of some friction. The fingers disappear altogether, and Beau whines again, louder, biting Ophelia’s shoulder in retaliation.

The hand resting on her neck grabs her hair, and Ophelia pulls Beau’s head backward, abruptly, a little painfully even.

Beau opens her eyes, shocked. “Behave,” Ophelia growls, before pressing her lips against the tender skin of Beau’s throat. She kisses her, then sucks a bruise into her flesh, still firmly holding Beau by the hair, and the mix of pleasure and pain is overwhelming.

Beau clenches her thighs. She needs Ophelia to touch her again, but she’s too proud to ask for it just yet. It doesn’t matter, though, because Ophelia has other plans for her.

She licks Beau’s neck, from her collarbone to the shell of her ear - and chuckles when Beau can’t quite stifle a moan. “Let’s have that lesson on manners,” she says in Beau’s ear. “Don’t you think it’s rude to come before the lady of the house?”

When Beau doesn’t answer, she tightens her grip on Beau’s hair. “Yeah,” Beau manages to get out, voice all strangled. “Totally rude.”

“I’m glad we’re in agreement. Now, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to take a seat, and you’re going to put that smart mouth of yours to good use.”

Ophelia kisses her, messily, sloppily, before letting her go. Beau watches, in a daze, as Ophelia discards her skirt and walks around the desk to sit on her chair, naked from the waist down.

She’s throbbing with arousal, heartbeat gone wild inside her ribcage, and the thought of not being touched right this second, the mere thought of having to _wait_ , is torture. Beau stares pleadingly at Ophelia across the desk, hoping against hope that she’ll relent, and smile that half-mocking smile of hers, and fuck her into oblivion.

She even pouts. (She’s not proud of it.)

Ophelia drums her fingernails on the wooden desk, and doesn’t smile. “Little girl, my patience is wearing thin.”

Oh, it’s hard, it’s so very hard for Beau to yield. Later, she’ll remember this exact moment, and think _I did it for Molly_ and she’ll wish she could believe her own lies, for once. But the truth is that Ophelia’s burning golden eyes are like a torch in the dark, impossible to ignore, shining a light on all the secret desires Beau keeps hidden deep in her heart.

Ophelia snaps her fingers. Beau falls down to her knees.

“Good girl,” Ophelia says, tone softer now. She opens her legs, and beckons her closer, and Beau crawls under the desk to do as she’s been told.

At first, she’s tentative. She runs her hands down Ophelia’s legs, from her hips to her ankles, and then up her thighs, making up patterns on the dark grey skin, listening to the fluctuations of Ophelia’s breathing.

Ophelia said to use her mouth, so Beau leaves a trail of kisses on the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, making her squirm in her seat. When she presses the tip of her tongue against her clit, Ophelia tenses, and her hand cups the back of Beau’s head again. Beau grows a little nervous, still reeling from the hair-pulling, but Ophelia just scratches her scalp. Gently, like a _thank you_.

Beau hums her appreciation, and the unexpected vibration makes Ophelia moan, so she does again, and again. It’s a fucking rush, to have such an effect on someone, to make them flutter with every brush of your tongue, and Beau has to pause to touch herself. She’s drenched, her fingers slipping easily inside of her.

She knows better than to focus on herself, though, especially with Ophelia’s hand still cradling her head, a tender but inflexible reminder of her place. So Beau gets to work, lapping at Ophelia’s cunt and flattening her tongue against her clit, darting and flicking and sucking. She loses herself for a while in the taste and smell of her, fire burning low and steady in her belly, desire spiking every time she manages to make Ophelia cry out.

She’s not sure how much time has passed when she feels Ophelia’s thighs shake under her hands. The fingers on her head tense and press her face closer, so close Beau can barely breathe, and Ophelia lets out a long, long sigh as she comes. Beau doesn’t move, lets Ophelia ride her orgasm into her mouth, hungry for every second of Ophelia’s pleasure, every quiver, every drop of wetness.

Eventually, Ophelia releases her hold on Beau’s head, and pushes her chair away from the desk, enough so that Beau, looking up, can now see her face. Ophelia smiles down at her. “You were right, that was a great time,” she says. Her face is a little flushed, dark grey cheeks tinged with pink. Beau licks her lips, and tastes Ophelia, and she’s almost overcome with the intensity of her arousal.

Somehow, it must show on her face, because Ophelia moves her chair further back, and pats her lap. “Come, sit. You’ve spent enough time on your knees.”

Beau doesn’t trust herself to talk, at this point - she’s pretty sure that if she opens her mouth she’ll end up fucking begging, and it feels a little too soon for that. So instead, she just silently complies, crawling from under the desk and straddling one of Ophelia’s legs, bracing her arms on the back of the chair. As soon as her soaked cunt touches the firm flesh of Ophelia’s thigh, Beau whimpers. It takes all of her self-control to stay still, to wait for Ophelia’s instructions.

Ophelia runs her hands from Beau’s shoulders down to her hips. “Look at you,” she says, quietly pleased. “Being so good for me.” She grabs hold of Beau’s ass, with both hands, and pushes her down, grinding Beau against her thigh, again and again, slow and steady.

“Fuck,” Beau breathes out, barely above a murmur. The pressure is heavenly, after such a long wait, but equally delicious is the fact that she’s not in charge of the pace. Ophelia leans close, and wraps her mouth around one of Beau’s nipples, making Beau gasp.

Ophelia covers her chest with kisses and tiny bites, and combined with the relentless grinding and the hands cupping her ass, it’s just too much, and Beau has to squeeze her eyes shut, tightly. She bites her lower lip so hard she tastes blood.

She feels her orgasm building in her stomach, in her thighs, a wave of pleasure rising and rising and rising, ineluctable, until the wave crests - and Ophelia stops moving entirely.

“No, no, no, come on,” Beau pleads, eyes opening wide. She was so fucking close - she’s on the verge of crying, out of frustration alone. Ophelia pats her ass. “Up,” she says, not moved in the slightest by Beau’s complaints. “Turn around.”

Beau hurries to obey, feverishly, desperate. Ophelia stands up behind her, and places a gentle hand on Beau’s lower back. “Bend over the desk for me, darling.”

“Fuck,” Beau says, again, louder this time. She can’t think, can’t find her words - everything is blurred out by the blaze of desire coursing through her veins. Beau lowers her chest onto the desk, and raises her hips without being prompted. Sweat is dripping down her temples. She presses her burning cheek against the cool wooden surface, and she inhales, exhales, tries to fucking _calm down_.

She’s not used to feeling so out of control, so helpless, so completely at the mercy of the whims of someone else.

Ophelia’s hand rubs her back, soothingly, until it’s replaced with something small and soft and cold, and Beau’s mind is too hazy to figure out what’s happening. It follows her spine, up the length of her back, then disappears, as suddenly as it appeared.

And then it _thwacks_ across her ass, out of nowhere, and Beau recognizes the sharp sting of the riding crop. She yelps, because it’s painful as hell, yet feels herself dripping on the desk. The tip of the crop snakes its way between her legs, grazing her wet folds, tapping her too-sensitive clit.

Beau chokes out inaudible words against the desk.

“What’s that?” Ophelia asks, not unkindly.

Beau’s fists clench, and relax, and she lets go of the last vestige of her pride. “Please,” she begs, very softly. “Ophelia, please.”

She hears something clatters on the floor, and then Ophelia thrusts two fingers inside of her, without any warning, and she starts fucking her, rough and fast, holding onto Beau’s hip with her free hand.

It’s _incredible_.

Ophelia knows what she’s doing, fingers curling inside Beau to hit _just_ the right spot, over and over and over again, and there’s nothing Beau can do but lay flat on the desk and take it, voice gone hoarse from crying out, Ophelia’s hips slapping repeatedly against her ass.

This time, finally, Ophelia allows her to come, and it feels like an implosion, flames racing up Beau’s spine and down her legs, shaking and shaking around Ophelia’s fingers, gasping for breath.

Afterwards, Ophelia scoops her off the desk and sets her down on the chair. Beau is boneless and spent, tongue heavy in her mouth, eyelids drooping. Her whole body is tingling with ripples of pleasure.

“That was fucking awesome,” she mutters, exhausted.

Ophelia brushes a dark lock of hair away from Beau’s forehead, and slips her fingers under Beau’s chin, lifting her head until Beau meets her eyes. “Oh, the night isn’t over yet.”


End file.
